


Written In Gold

by GalekhXigisi



Series: The Unholy Holy Trinity Collection [3]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), Stranger Things (TV 2016), The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Also abuse happens, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Pennywise Still Happens, Richie Tozier and Boris Pavlikovsky and Mike Wheeler are triplets, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, The Unholy Holy Trinity, Trans Boris Pavlikovsky, Trans Richie Tozier, fuck it, mentioned Miles Fairchild, that's all the info you GET, typical Goldfinch shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:13:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21534997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalekhXigisi/pseuds/GalekhXigisi
Summary: Richie and Boris live their messy lives with their soulmates and meet their long lost dumbass brother and also fall in love with their soulmates.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Dustin Henderson/Lucas Sinclair, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak/Stanley Uris, Eleven | Jane Hopper/Maxine "Max" Mayfield, Jonathan Byers/Nancy Wheeler, Joyce Byers/Jim "Chief" Hopper, Maggie Tozier/Wentworth Tozier, Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris, Robin Buckley/Heather Holloway, Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky, Will Byers/Mike Wheeler
Series: The Unholy Holy Trinity Collection [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1553902
Comments: 6
Kudos: 57





	Written In Gold

The two children sit on the couch, coiled up in a couple of blankets. The couch was ratty and old, always stinking of cigarettes, alcohol, and cat piss, though the cat the two children had was only there for a day before their father had gone ballistic and, well, the children didn’t like to think about the results that came with it. The two gad learned to keep quiet when their parents were home, especially if it was both of them at the same time. They learned not to make a singular noise. 

Now, the two adults sat a few rooms over, long since passed out and have been so for an hour or two now, signifying that only now was it beginning to be safe to talk. When their parents fell asleep, the two would sleep for hours at a time, sleeping until they were awakened by one another or the brutal alarms they had set on their phones. 

They weren’t soulmates. The two children knew their parents could never be because their words hadn’t aligned. Their mama would say her soulmate died young to smokers lung and their father would say his wife died in a horrid car crash because her ex tried to murder her. The twin five-year-olds liked to pretend their parents loved each other and it hadn’t been because their families organized the two to be wedded, but they knew about it. 

Their father would constantly cuss the children out, would make sure they knew that the woman they called  _ Mama _ was not their own, despite her somewhat kind  _ (compared to his own) _ nature towards them. She wasn’t so much of a parent as she was simply a presence. She liked to tell them their origins, too. She would tell them that they weren’t hers, that they were a woman who lived on the other side of the world, far from any of the places they had moved to. She would make sure that they knew they were from an affair where another child had come into play, one that wasn’t identical like the two were, that he was an actual boy, until them. She would tell them of a fourth child, one who was older and came from a whole other affair. They liked to ignore it and pretend their mother didn’t love to spit venom at them. 

“Alright, Chee,” says the taller of the two, the one who didn’t require glasses. Chee wasn’t the other’s name, but they had yet to find names for each other, yet to select something for each of them to use because Chee’s name was too long and Bee’s never fit, either, so the two improvised. 

Chee smiles widely, hands wrapped around each of Bee’s wrists, awaiting the marks that would sting but knowingly distinguish the older boy’s soulmate - or soulmates, his friend at school had said, sporting different marks on each wrist. There would be their first words, first sentence or sentences directed at them. Sometimes, they were just one word, other times, a full paragraph. Their mother had twodifferent shortt sentences while their father had a full one hundred word paragraph staining his wrist, unable to be removed. 

Chee wouldn’t get his markings until tomorrow, the marking of his fifth birthday at the exact moment he was born going to be that time. That wouldn’t be until early the next morning. It was early now, already four-thirty for them. Chee was rather excited to wait, though he had issues with reading. The two had been taught by their mother, had been forced through so many different languages that the television was a roulette wheel. They weren’t the best at reading, but they got by well enough. 

Bee cringes as the harsh burn sets in, the words  _ Fuck off _ forming in golden letters over his right wrist, marking the singular soulmate. That doesn’t stop Chee from practically losing his mind, buzzing with energy as he whisper-screams, keeping his voice down as much as he can. 

Twenty-three hours later, he had the words  _ Beep beep, Trashmouth _ and  _ Shut the fuck up _ written on his wrists, left and right accordingly. He was ecstatic, much more enthusiastic about the markings than Bee had been. 

-

From what Boris could tell, there was a new kid in class. Boris couldn’t remember what the fuck this class was, but he knew it was one of them, one that he never paid attention to. He knew his brother would give him the notes later, all written down in Russian cursive, which was a bitch to read and a miracle to understand, but Richie would leave a translation in Ukraine on another page with a smiley face, the important bits highlighted with whatever color he seemed to take up his interest that day. For the past three days, it had been green, and before that, orange and yellow. Today would either be green again, blue, or purple. Hell, maybe even pink, though Richie often avoided pink for as long as he could. The yellow and orange markers were out of color, an incredibly faded frowny face written a few days ago. 

Boris didn’t know the kid, but he seemed way too tame, too put together. When he hears the girl in class comment something, he scoffs the word out before he even thinks it out, commenting, _ “Twat,” _ with a sneer. To his surprise, the boy looks back at him, brows furrowed. Boris only jerks his head towards the girl, half-heartedly glaring at her, to which the other smiles. 

Boris decides within that moment that he is going to be the one to pester this kid before any of the other shitheads at this shit school can get to him. When he flops down on the bus beside him and calls him  _ Potter, _ the boy only tells him  _ fuck off. _ Boris feels the same sting he hadn’t in years looking down at his wrist. The few words he had spoken to the boy were imprinted on his wrist, marking it up with his soulmate claim. 

-

“Is it just you two here,” Theo questions Boris, asking about his father and himself. 

Boris shakes his head, taking a sip of beer. “No,” he says, “My brother-” 

Just as soon as he mentions him, there’s the slam of the back door, a boy who stood just as tall as Boris walking out of the home, though he freezes at seeing Theo, hands at the bottom of his shirt like he was about to take it off. The two hadn’t been there too long, but they had a system. Richie would come home late from school with notes for all the classes and whatever extra shit he took, coming home and immediately taking off his shirt and the two boys stripping down to their underwear, just bitching about whatever troubled them or generally talking, just getting by. Richie wouldn’t get stoned like Boris, wouldn’t accept alcohol of any kind, but he monitored his brother in a way Boris could never understand. 

“Is this a bad time,” Richie asks, panic setting in almost instantly, “I can leave-” 

“No, no,” Boris rushes out with before his brother can go on an entire frantic tirade. He shakes his head and stands from his spot, only slightly tipsy. “Richie, this is Theo. Theo, Richie.” 

The two wave at each other, though Richie has a frown on his face. They had only been to this school for a week and, by the looks of it, the boy with glasses had been there longer, already accustomed to the dry area. He wonders why he hasn’t seen him at school yet but doesn’t ask. Instead, he just nods, slow and accepting. He hums and moves back inside, avoiding the two with a worrisome frown. Before he slides the door closed, he softly says, “Just want for Dad, okay?” Just like that, that’s the end of the conversation, the door sliding shut and the boy walking away from the two.

“Should I leave,” Theo asks slowly, concerned. 

Boris shakes his head slowly, sighing. “No.” He moves back to his spot beside the other, watching as the night falls over them. “He’s just…  _ adjusting.” _

For some reason, Theo doesn’t pry about what that means, just accepting it as it comes. 

-

Theo becomes a part of Richie and Boris’ life quickly, though Richie is often spotted in his room, stripped down to his underwear and a tight sports bra, doing whatever his heart desires. Theo and Boris invite him to do things with them, to get high or steal from stores or eat or whatever the fuck it was they were doing, but Richie usually turned it down, choosing to stay in his room or on the couch, browsing through shitty movies and trying to replicate the words the people on television said, trying to teach himself how to pronounce words the people did. It hurts the soulmates in a way they can’t pin, but the two keep it to themselves, not commenting on it. 

For a rather long while, Theo thought Richie didn’t like him. He thought the boy hated him with the way he avoided him, the way the boy wouldn’t comment about anything at all and mostly kept to himself. He would only say things in passing, barely even acknowledging the two when they came home or really did anything. 

However, Theo learns he doesn’t hate him the day Richie comes rushing through Boris’ room door thrown open as he frantically spews something neither can understand. However, Richie forces down his panic to heave out a panting, “Dad’s almost home.” It’s clear he was running, his skin sticky with sweat and face heated in a way that turned porcelain skin rosy. He points somewhere that Theo can’t really pin, though it’s frantic. “Store- beer stop- get  _ out.” _

Boris seems to understand, stumbling up immediately. “He’ll kill the dog,” is all Theo needs to hear, stumbling forward, too. By the time he’s out of the home, he can see through the back door, the two boys taking hits without so much as a flinch. 

Theo is only twelve when he learns that this was far from the first time it had happened and it was one of the reasons Richie didn’t try to associate with him. When Theo saw Richie the next day, the only thing he had clarified was, “I don’t get attached to someone that could leave.” 

-

“We have to  _ go,” _ Theo insists one last time, the kiss pushed aside because Theo was panicking and Boris was way too calm about this. However, Theo had overheard something the twins had been talking about earlier, Richie saying something about their dad leaving in hushed voices. Theo hadn’t picked up too much Russian from the two, but he picked up enough words to understand  _ dad left. _

“But Richie-” 

“He can come, too,” Theo says before he can think it out. They don’t have much money, just enough to get away from here, but Boris had said he usually kept a lot of money stocked up  _ (Theo had no idea where he got the money) _ and maybe it would help. Hell, maybe even Richie could, too, who fucking knows? 

Boris takes a moment to think, a moment force himself into considering what in the fuck he’s going to do. It takes him an entire three seconds to give a sharp nod, just saying something along the lines of, “For Chee.” 

-

Richie didn’t seem to understand what was going on, but he already had a bag packed and seemed to know what locations had what to offer, to which Boris only seemed to somewhat know. It was almost as if Richie had been planning to leave, which Theo wouldn’t doubt. They were going to head to New York, but the thought of returning made Theo want to hurl, so they went wherever the bus took them, which ended up being a small town in Maine that Richie seemed to go to by instinct, though they didn’t understand. 

Richie, though seemed to know exactly what he was doing when he knocked on the door to a house at the end of a street, his hair wild and sleepy circles darkening his eyes. The stars shone bright over them as the three stood on the porch, a determined look on Richie’s face as the door opened. 

“Hello,” the woman more asks than anything else, confused. 

“Misses Tozier,” he says in a soft voice, rainwater pouring on him, “I’m Richie, the one that accidentally called you a few months ago.” 

She seems to sharpen, moving aside within an instant, her face blanching as she let them in, keeping her voice hushed. “Yeah,” she says in a quiet voice. 

“Excuse me,” Boris scoffs to his brother, words coming out rushed and angry as he spits in a language Theo doesn’t understand. However, it seems to get heated quickly as the two spit venom at each other, tongues quick as they scoff words at each other. 

“What,” the woman asks, confused. 

“I was  _ explaining,” _ Richie bites, pushing his brother away, “that I accidentally called you one night because I was dialing an old friend and got your number, instead,” 

“You don’t  _ have _ friends,” his brother accuses instantly. 

“Her name is Beverly and we talked a couple of times when we were in California, okay,” he bites back. He points a thin finger at the other, “She was visiting and  _ you _ bet me that I couldn’t get her number, remember?” 

“So you got it?” 

“I did,” he announces proudly, “And she lives here, actually.” He seems to fumble for a moment before realizing what he said. “Not  _ here _ as in  _ here _ here, here as in this city,” 

Boris hums for a moment, raising a skeptic brow. “So you’ve arranged for us to stay?” 

Richie frowns, nodding slowly. “Yeah,” he says softly, cowering somewhat. “I called Misses Tozier after the first night dad got back, when you stayed with Theo for a couple of days because he was home and I said I wasn’t going to be home, anyway, because there was some school stuff going on.” He looks away. “It got canceled so I had to be home and he was on the phone with some business people and they found out about the murders that happened. He was going to leave us so he didn’t have a trail and I just… I needed a back up in case he really did…” 

Boris seems to soften and Misses Tozier sighs, slow and sad. The woman’s somber expression doesn’t leave her as she says, “We can take you three in, my husband and I. I’m Maggie, he’s Wentworth. We have a few rooms you three can stay in, so… I don’t know how this will legally work, but… It’s all I can offer.” 

-

With enough shady knowhow the twins have on them, Maggie has three newly appointed children within the next two weeks, not claimed by her nor her husband but housed by the woman. They walk a very thin line between plain illegal and totally legal. As they find, the Toziers are rarely home. The only things they insist on is that the home stays in one piece and that they at least pass their classes, which really isn’t hard when Richie gives them the answers no matter what. 

However, Richie loves to smart off, and that’s how he meets his soulmates. He’s with Beverly, the two talking with Richie, Boris, and Theo being in school for their first day. One minute, Richie is egging on the two boys Beverly had introduced him to. The next, he’s feeling a harsh sting on both wrists and words he only heard in dreams. His mind stutters to a halt, the boy’s cheeks flushing red as he starts talking to them. 

Eddie and Stanley, he finds are their names. He wonders if they know he’s a part of their triad. They don’t mention it and Richie isn’t going to point it out, so, slowly, he learns to just integrate into the group of losers he called friends. 

Richie totally doesn’t complain about them to Boris and Theo that night, dressed in large clothes with an annoyed ramble leaving him. The two stoned and drunk-out-of-their-minds shitheads wouldn’t remember in the morning so, really, nor harm, no foul, right? 

-

“Were you ever going to tell us,” Theo asks Richie, frowning at his friend. Richie glances up from where he’s sitting on the couch, a bag of chips in hand, crumbs on the floor from the number of times he had thrown chips to the dog, giving Popper more than himself. He frowns, confused as the other asks the question. 

Boris clarifies, “About Toziers.” 

Richie seems to understand, his frown deepening as he fished a few more chips out for Popper, giving him an entire handful without even looking at the dog. He nods, though. “Yeah,” he says, “Would have eventually. Our dads were shit and Xandra wasn’t going to step up.” 

“Is not your concern,” Boris accuses. 

Richie leans up with a glare at his brother. “Of  _ course, _ it’s my concern,” he bites out quickly. “Is my concern when we’re getting beat and so is Theo! Those bruises, s’not the first time, no?” He points to Theo, accusing the boy of something Theo would never admit. The rough moment of silence is all Richie needs as confirmation, though, huffing as he lays back down, turning his attention towards the television. Back now facing them as he lays over the edge. 

“Chee,” Boris quickly says. 

“What, Bee?” 

“You’ve blood on your short.” 

Richie’s face flushes as he stands, making his way to the bathroom without another word pressed between the three.

-

Boris doesn’t understand a lot about Richie. They had been staying with the Toziers for a while now, long enough for this school year to have ended and the boys to be halfway through summer. Richie was rarely home, now, hanging out with some kids at school that Boris never actually talked to, though Richie had called them the losers club and they seemed to fit well together. He doesn’t understand why his brother comes home one day, covered in cuts and bruises, clothes soaked with the stench of sewage sitting harshly over him. 

“What that stink,” Boris calls, quick and butchered as he asks. 

His brother only turns towards him, a broken look sitting over his face and paper in his hands. He doesn’t get another answer as the boy trudges up the stairs to the bathroom, door getting slammed behind him. 

He doesn’t get any more answers when Richie comes down a few hours later, laying beside Boris and Theo, draped over the two with a large shirt on, which meant something was obviously wrong. Richie always wore the least possible amount of clothes he could get away with, which had become a lot over the years they had spent alone, rather comfortable around Theo. He would wear too-tight sports bras and underwear while parading around the house with music blasting and running up his attempt of impressions of the people on television. He could throw his voice, usually getting them all spot on, which always impressed both of the boys when Richie would proudly show off the voices he could do. 

Now, he looks like a husk of a person, deathly silent as Theo hand his hands through the wild curls. Usually, he would pout or smile  _ (it was always a toss-up of random) _ at the affectionate action. Now, he doesn’t even respond to it, putting his glasses on the arm of the couch. It takes away the thick-rimmed cover, revealing those soulful eyes painted blank and unfocused. Dark bags sit beneath them. It was  _ pathetic, _ watching the life Richie always radiated get drained like the night Theo heard his father yell his birth name and deliver harsh blows that left Richie in severe pain with a probably broken rib. If it was broken, the two older boys knew it hadn’t healed correctly. 

It isn’t until two hours after he had draped himself across them that he started sobbing, falling apart in a way that certainly would take time to nurse back to normalcy. This wasn’t some form of  _ kiss it better _ like Theo’s mom would do when he got a scratch, this was days upon days of nursing him back to health with whatever they would use. It was a quick realization that made their chests ache as they watched him shatter. There were bruises all over his body, handprints painted in dark purple with patches that were almost black. His legs had a bunch of them like he had been pushed down a steep, bush-ridden hill. THat had happened a few times before, but Richie had only ever gotten back up with a laugh and thumbs up to signal that he was fine, so it certainly wasn’t  _ that. _

Richie shuts them out for a few days, locked in his room. It was a stark difference to the week before when he spent his entire free time with his friends. It worried the older two, but Richie wasn’t going to spill, they quickly realized after the first time they had asked, which only ended in an eruptions of sobs. 

-

“Richie,” Eddie says in a soft voice, one that’s almost wary, “I - Is he here?” 

Boris raises a brow, confused at the short boy with a cast that stood at the door. His other friend stood beside him, merely a tall boil with coiled hair and an anxious look to his face. He’s Richie’s friends, the ones that he never brought home but always seemed to be with. A group stood behind them, one boy holding another against his chest, someone younger than the entire group.  _ Georgie, _ Boris recognizes from the missing posters that never seemed to stop coming until the week before when Bill, the one who was holding him now, had turned up with his brother in hand and no explanation because Georgie couldn’t remember anything and Bill found him in the sewers. 

Theo stands behind him, nodding as he makes his boyfriend moves out of the way to let them in. “Richie,” he calls through the home. He’s on the couch, curled up in a blanket with  _ Green Eggs and Ham _ playing on loop for the third day in a row. “Your friends are here.” 

He mumbles something in Russian, something along the lines of  _ don’t have those _ if Theo remembers correctly. He still looks so drained, so tired despite sleeping more than Theo had ever seen him sleep. Richie would sleep for only two to six hours, typically, and yesterday, he had slept for seventeen inconsecutive hours with nightmares plaguing a lot of it. He was pale and didn’t eat much, nothing more than some of the potato chips offered to him, though he often gave far more of them to Popchyk than himself. 

Within an instant, the one Boris recognizes as Mike is in front of him, kneeling down with Eddie and Stan at his sides. Eddie is asking if he’s sick, if he’s alright, a million different questions coming out within a minute as his friends crowd around him. 

Richie hesitates for a moment, pausing  _ Green Eggs and Ham _ with a somber look decorating his features. He still looks so lifeless, but he pulls his friends into a hug, tears rolling down his cheeks and collecting on his blanket. For some reason, Bill offers apologies, apologizing for, what Boris can collect, is  _ punching him, dragging him to the sewers, _ and _ traumatizing him. _ Boris is almost tempted to beat him into a pulp before he hears some of the first words Richie’s said in  _ days. _

“You only punched me once,” he scoffs with a forced smile. It’s broken, but it’s a start, a start that looks rough. 

-

Richie was having a rough time. The constant reminder of that stupid fucking clown hit him hard, getting thrown in his face at any and all times. It comes at random. It was like when he had finally gotten away from his dad. Every raised voice, every touch that didn’t come from his brother or Theo, it all felt so  _ disgusting. _ He trusted his friends with his life, _ obviously, _ but it was so  _ rough. _ One moment, he would be in the clubhouse laughing. The next, he’d be in the deadlights, the few minutes he had alone with Pennywise while everyone had abandoned him to clean Bev’s bathroom, well… The deadlights weren’t fun and Richie could remember every single second of it. The nightmares invaded his life. He was always tired, always too tired to do too much. He could get through his time with his friends, sure, that wasn’t too hard, but he found the facade he had finely crafted for them slipping constantly. 

“Why’d you leave me,” he suddenly asks them during one of their times where Georgie was at a doctor’s appointment so it was just the older kids there, able to talk without having to censor about Pennywise because Georgie didn’t remember him and they wanted to keep it that way. Confused looks cross his path, confused ones that make Richie want to cower. So, slowly, he asks, “Why did you guys leave me?... Before we got Mike, to clean Bev’s bathroom…” His voice trails off throat feeling tight. He can’t help the swell of emotions as he repeats, “Why’d you guys  _ leave me?” _

“Why’s it a big deal,” Mike asks, confused as he looks around. He hadn’t been friends with the group yet, hadn’t even talked to them before. 

“I was  _ alone,” _ Richie whimpers, tears burning at his eyes. He had been the first to notice Stan disappearing, the first to let out the panicked yelp at the realization that he was gone just seconds after it happened. It reminded him of his time alone, of the time he had spent and was Pennywise had done to him in those few hours. Why was  _ he _ lookout? 

“Richie,” Beverly weakly says, “What happened?” 

The tears fall as he gets asked the question, sniffles immediately turning into sobs that wrack his entire body. They’re rough and shake the hammock so bad that he has to get out of it so he doesn’t fall out. His accent comes thick, sobs, not at all helping. “H - He came and, and the fuckin’  _ deadlights _ got me and I-” He shakes, hands unfocused despite being so close to his face. “You guys  _ died, _ okay,” he sobs, overstimulated by the memories that haunted him and woke him up at random times with a panic attack that Theo and Boris would bring him down from. “You guys  _ left me alone.” _ he chokes on another sob, almost gagging from it as he coughs. “Why was  _ I _ the lookout?” He almost asks if they didn’t like him, if they didn’t want him, but… He doesn’t know how he’d continue on if the answers weren’t what he was praying for, so he doesn’t. 

Stan offers his arms out in a hug. Richie doesn’t want the physical contact, but he knows he needs it, needs the touch or he’ll just be in a drowning boat. He accepts the hug, gripping rightly at Stan. And slowly, the others join. Even Mike, who didn’t do anything, who couldn’t have caused any harm. 

“I’m sorry,” they say, repeated over and over again, given their own versions of it. It doesn’t help, not really, because the topic would have kept being ignored until the days they died, but at least Richie learned how they could kill that fucking clown, even if the trauma that came with it same beneath his stomach in a disgusting pit. 

Silently, he wonders if Stan and Eddie know about the words that are written on their wrists. He wonders if they’ve been oblivious to the golden writing or just ignoring over time. He wonders if they may love him the way he loves them… 

He hopes he can get an answer one day. 

-

It’s rough getting Richie back to the happy state he once sported. Sure, it would come back, but it was too fake, crafted meticulously after years of learning how to make sure no one at school worried if things were alright at home. He could follow orders down to a T, dotting his eyes with a perfect hand and legible writing. His real handwriting was messy, quickly scribbled out with a few words skipped around in odd patterns, leaving certain spots blank. Grammatically corners were cut to spare what wasn’t needed,  _ A’s _ and  _ It’s _ cut down to nothing or  _ is _ as a quick fix. His natural notes came how Boris talked, sometimes a little broken but understandable, nonetheless. Boris hadn’t seen him write like that in a long time… 

They look exactly alike, really. Richie steals Boris’ clothes, which are always called Theo’s clothes, too. He likes the dark aesthetic, likes how pleasing it is on his eyes. Sometimes, Theo would take Richie’s clothes, the obnoxious colors he liked to wear because they pissed Eddie and Stan off sometimes nice to wear. Boris wouldn’t touch them with a six-foot pole, but it didn’t matter. The only difference was Richie’s glasses and the fact that he was growing much, much taller than his brother, now a few inches taller. 

The three sync up perfectly with each other. The Toziers were rarely ever home, but they got along, too. Boris liked to cook  _ (Theo wasn’t allowed to after he blew up the microwave making noodles) _ and Richie never minded cleaning up after his brother. Theo would clean up whatever Richie missed, which was never much but he did remember having to pry cheese off of the ceiling at one point, which he never got an explanation for because Boris rarely ate cheese and it made Richie’s skin break out and Theo hadn’t had cheese all week.  _ S’a toss-up, _ Richie had joked on one of his better days with a crooked smile across his face, one that wasn’t yet full but was still there, nonetheless. It didn’t meet his eyes like it used to… 

The Losers came over fairly often, sitting with Richie on the couches, the group getting along. They brought Boris and Theo along when they could convince the two to come, which was how they found themselves now beneath the water, the quarry cold against the heat of the summer. And Boris watched as Richie sat on the sidelines, sitting on one of the rocks partially submerged in the water. Beverly had said it was one of his perches and Boris didn’t doubt it at all as he examined his brother, who was watching Eddie and Stan, wearing the same soft expression Boris would catch on Theo’s face during some of their calmer moments in life. Sometimes, they would be hazed out of their minds on whatever substance they were doing, and others, it would come during those hangovers when everything was mostly unbearable so they had the lights dimmed and sat together, cloth to cloth, skin to skin. 

“You love them, no?” Boris questions as he floats beside his brother, his own chin perched on one of the rocks that seemed dry. 

Richie hums, attention turned to the shorter. He informs him, “They’re my soulmates.” 

Boris shakes his head. “Not my question.” Soulmates could be wrong. They could lead to horrid relationships and broken bonds. Ben said his mother and birth father were an example of that, now living with his mother and her girlfriend, who were much better of a couple than anything beforehand. 

The taller turns it about his head for a moment, soft expression dropping into one that makes Richie look older than he is. Slowly, he nods, wistfully turning towards where the two were, lips pressed together before Eddie was aggressively dunking Stan, who emerged from under him with the short boy on his shoulders, the two laughing with the others. He turns back to Boris. The sad look, Boris thinks, will haunt him as Richie confirms, “Yeah… Yeah, I do…” He doesn’t say it out loud and Boris knows better than to push. It was the one set of words he and Theo had yet to share with each other, after all. Even on the day they had - in a  _ very _ drunken, stoned stupor - gotten married. It was quick and made official easily, the two minors married at twelve because Theo’s dad and Xandra were both drunk out of their minds and Richie knew how to forge signatures easily. 

-

“We’ve got new neighbors,” Theo reports as he enters the home, bag on his side and hitting his hip as he moved. Boris was more or less hanging off of his soulmate. “They’re two houses down.” 

“Collins’ old house,” Richie asks as he hands a chip to Popper, dog on a leash and ready to be walked. Usually, Richie didn’t bother with putting him on a leash, as he listened well enough, but he wanted to go a few extra places and didn’t want to worry about him running off. Theo and Boris could tell, which would knowingly mean Richie was feeling better. Neither comment on it as they give confirmation on that. “I’ll say hi.” 

“Why,” Boris asks with a raised brow. Theo elbows him in the side.

Richie shrugs, seemingly wary all of a sudden. It makes Boris’ stomach flop at the realization. “Dunno,” he says slowly, brows furrowed and focus on Popper as he clipped the leash on, “We didn’t get a hello, did we?...” 

Theo hums. “Would’ve been nice, though.”

The tallest smiles softly.  _ Ti’s forced, _ the soulmates note. 

“Come on, Popchyk,” he says softly, watching as the dog trots beside him. “See you guys,” he says softly as he passes the two. 

Richie walks out the door with a soft expression. Normally, one of the Losers would be with him when he was leaving, but they were all busy with something today. Stan was doing something for church with Eddie’s assistance, Beverly was at court so her aunt could get custody of her, Bill had gone with Georgie to the doctor’s, Ben was out of state to visit his grandma, and Mike had work to do. That left Richie alone. He stalks up to the house that once belonged to the Collins’ family, now housed by someone he doesn’t know. He doesn’t give himself time to think as his knuckles wrap against the door, forcing a smile and the best normal American accent he can attempt. 

A woman with choppy hair opens the door. She has some age on her, Richie can already tell, but she’s bright and happy in a way that reminds him of Maggie Tozier or Beverly’s aunt, who Richie always called Aunty Marsh or Am for short. The woman looks like she’s seen a ghost, though, faltering as she says, “H - Hi.” 

“Hello,” Richie says, pitching his voice down. If not for his time at the quarry or with Pennywise, the Losers would never know that it was an impression. “I’m Richie Tozier, I live a few houses down.” He points to his own home, to which the woman nods. “I just wanted to say welcome to Derry.” 

She smiles at him, old smile lines creasing as she does so. It’s comforting as she says, “Thanks. I’m Joyce, uh, Joyce Byers. I have a son and daughter about your age, you know?” 

“I didn’t, actually.” Popchyk sits down beside Richie as another dog walks out of the house, a white dog that’s bigger than Popchyk. The two start sniffing each other, though they don’t give any tell that it’s hostile. Richie silently prays that they don’t start fighting. “My twin brother, Boris, we live there with his soulmate, Theo, and our parents.” The word sits in his mouth like stagnated water.  _ Parents. _ “And this is Popchyk, but we usually call him Popper.” 

“Popchyk,” Joyce repeats slowly. She smiles down at her own dog. “That’s Chester.” Chester turns suddenly, hauling ass inside, quick with his movements as a boy clicks for him. 

“Mom,” the boy asks, blonde hair cut in a bowl cut. He’s shorter than Richie. He looks like he’s seen a ghost, too. “What-” 

She interrupts, “Will, Honey, this is Richie Tozier, he lives down the street.” 

“Oh,” the boy -  _ Will _ \- says. 

Richie gives a weak wave at that. “Hiya.” 

Another person trots through, a girl whose hair is cut short, shorter than Richie’s or Boris’s own were. She pauses the instant she sees him, brows furrowed as she frowns, her confusion written clear. 

“Eleven,” Will says after a moment, “this is Richie.” 

Eleven pauses for another moment before passing a sharp glare to Richie and walking away, Chester following her without question. After that, Richie is quick to end the conversation. He feels like the girl would have killed him within an instant, though, logically, he doubts she would have. He doesn’t doubt that she could, but he doubts that she  _ would. _ There’s a difference that Richie hates has to be distinguished. 

When he finally gets home two hours later with Popper at his side, he shuts the door and groans, watching as his brother and brother-in-law lean up, confused at his sudden appearance,. “Neighbors are fuckin’  _ weird,” _ he reports as he unclips Popchyk’s leash and hangs up, not saying anything else as he retreats to his room. 

-

“Who are the new kids,” Beverly asks Richie with a frown, the group finally together after a full week of limited interaction. With such a predicament, they hadn’t yet seen the family Richie had had the pleasure of talking to. 

Richie hums softly, taking his spot in the hammock without question, Stan and Eddie both tumbling in after him with a limited fuss, though Richie somehow gets both of their feet in his face, which wasn’t something he ever really enjoyed. “Byers-Hoppers,” he says, “Mom, son, adopted daughter.” He pushes Eddie’s feet away with a scoff. “Will, very small, tiny, practically! Smaller than Eddie!” He waves at Eddie with a smirk, no longer trying to cover up his accent around the group. After Pennywise, he found himself avoiding it. “Joyce, the mom, she’s nice… Kind, really.” He smiles softly as he slowly supplies, “Like Maggie Tozier. Eleven, the daughter, little scary but… She might be nice. I don’t think they like me.” 

“Byers-Hoppers,” Stan more asks than anything, repeating it with a confused tone. 

Richie nods, “El is Hopper, Joyce and Will Byers.” He moves his hands with his words. “Eleven Jane Ives Hopper Byers, Joyce said.” They had talked a couple times since the first day when Richie had volunteered that he and Boris were both adopted, still feigning that fake throw together of  _ American-ness. _ She didn’t suspect anything, apparently, and thought it to be genuine. “Will’s just a Byers. Hopper, he was El’s dad, now dead and Joyce’s dead ex. She has an older son,  _ Jonathan, _ lives in New York for college.” 

“I - Isn’t Theo from New York,” Bill asks slowly. Richie had given him some advice at one point, something along the lines of  _ think out the sentence before you say it, form it in your mind and replicate it. _ It was something Richie did talk  _ “right,” _ and it worked out well enough for him, accent subdued by forced pronunciation. For some reason, Bill had taken it to heart and none of the group dared be upset about the extra second Bill needed to get his words out, nor when Richie needed time, too. 

Richie nods, smiling softly. “Yep,” he confirms, popping the  _ P. _

“Is he ever going to visit,” Mike asks next.

Richie raises a confused brow, “Jonathan or Theo?’ 

The shorter boy considers his words for a moment before humming and supplying, “Both, I guess.” Richie only shrugs, unsure of when Theo would be able to face New York and not knowing the Byers-Hopper-Hopper-Byers well enough to ask. 

“Dunno. El, she doesn’t  _ like me.” _

“What’s El have to do with Jonathan, Richie,” Ben questions. 

He heaves a sigh, supplying in a soft voice, “Kinda scary…” 

_ “She’s _ scary,” Beverly asks with a smile on her lips, laughing softly at Richie’s flushed cheeks. 

“Not funny,” Richie yelps, waving at her with a pout, “She’s  _ scary, _ okay? Don’t deal with scary.” Bill nods, understanding what Richie means when he says it, the reminder of those three doors and the Eddie that wasn’t their own still beneath both boys’ skin. They had yet to tell anyone but themselves about it, not yet sharing the information. Richie certainly wasn’t going to go into detail. 

“Fine,” Beverly scoffs, “We’ll go meet them and see if they’re scary. Personally, I think she’s kind of cute.” 

-

Richie feels awkward as his friends greet the new family. Logically, he  _ knows _ he shouldn’t. They’ve fought a killer clown, they’ve  _ killed _ a scary killer clown that had taunted Richie and his friends. He really  _ shouldn’t _ be scared of Eleven, but she keeps passing him a certain disapproving look that he only realizes reminds him of his mother when he has to do the third double take in a minute, Boris sitting beside him on the grass of the Byers’ lawn. The only person not on the grass was Eddie, who sat on the driveway awkwardly with Stan partially on the driveway and partially on the grass, just enough so that he could still be connected to the group and Eddie all at once. 

“She doesn’t like me,” Richie says to Boris. 

Boris rolls his eyes as he watches Theo chatting with Will. “Me, neither,” he easily concludes as El gives them a look. “Could ask about it,” he suggests with a casual look, brows raised and mouth slack as he turns the words towards the taller. 

“What if it’s bad memories,” Richie asks, throat suddenly feeling  _ very _ tight. 

“Never stopped me before,” Boris proclaims, standing up in a swift movement, ignoring Richie’s call after him as he moved to stand beside the group, hip cocked to the side. He doesn’t hesitate to ask, “What is your problem with us, Eleven?” 

It’s odd, Richie thinks, to watch his brother make sure to use perfect grammar. It’s not  _ uncomfortable _ for him, per se, but it’s not exactly something that reassures him. It especially doesn’t help when El’s glare sharpens and the conversation between the entire group stops. Richie stumbles forward, almost falling on his face twice. He would never say he was the most graceful, but that would still be a rather unceremonious way to enter a conversation that could or could not hurt him in the future. 

Will seems to be the one wanting to talk, instantly saying, “She doesn’t have a problem,  _ really.” _

“Asking her, Will,” Boris says, eyes pointed at Eleven. He doesn’t say it in a  _ rude _ sort of way, but it wasn’t exactly kind, either. 

“You look like his soulmate,” she says slowly, the word  _ he _ knowingly pointed at Will, “both of you do.” 

“Not our fault,” Boris concludes heavily, “Cannot change our looks.” 

_ “Boris,” _ Richie mumbles, “Just  _ leave it, _ okay?’ 

His brother passes a huff at him, not yet ready to let go of the topic as he says,  _ “No. _ She can’t hold our looks against us, we’ve done nothing! No wrong!” He waves his arm at the group. “They have bad blood, not our fault!” 

“There’s no bad blood between us,” Will tries weakly, “We’re okay! El just isn’t on the best of terms with Mike!” 

“Not my fault!” Boris argues. 

El frowns, standing up. The only information she supplies is, “I’ll get his picture,” before running off, moving to the house quickly. 

The group stays silent, tense, and awkward, unsure of how to break the silence. Richie was giving his brother a harsh look that the brooding boy was easily returning. Will looked tense while everyone else seemed to be avoiding the topic at hand, even Theo included. Richie was rather thankful Georgie wasn’t with them. 

When Eleven returns, she holds a collection of photos in her hands, polaroids all displayed as she shows them to the two boys currently standing there. It’s uncanny just how much he looks like the two, their face structures the exact same, looks pronounced with high cheekbones. He doesn’t have the harsh splash of freckles that Richie does, more mirroring Boris’s skin. He’s narrow in a way the two aren’t, the cheekbones that were duplicates of their father’s own making them far more masculine than anyone would suspect if they  _ didn’t _ have his structure. The boy’s hair is only the tiniest bit wavy, though. 

“Shitty hair,” Richie scowls before he gets a second to think it out, the words a messy jumble with his accent so thick. “Maybe our triplet,” he suggests to Boris. 

“There’s another one of you,” Eddie asks, loud and confused. 

Boris nods. “Father had lots of affairs. Mother always told us everything.” Theo knew about this, knew about the shitty things that had happened in their pasts, about the things that their father killed, adopted mother being one of them, though no one could prove it and the children couldn’t testify. “Triplets, two girls, identical, one boy, not so much.” He shrugs. He was never secretive about his transition, not as much as Richie tried to be. Richie hadn’t told the losers  _ shit _ compared to what Theo knew. “We twins, identical, he? Not so much. Nother, Miles Fairchild, he’s our oldest brother, never met‘im. Could be more, who knows?’ 

“Dad said he came back to Fairchild,” Richie supplies, “After Mom died.” 

“There’s enough of you,” Stan sighs, annoyed somewhat. “So, what, you guys just have the shitty  _ chance _ to move here and meet them? Now you’ve discovered their long lost brother that he conveniently never knew existed?” 

Will shrugs. “I don’t know,  _ maybe? _ We could try to get Mike here? Do you think Steve would bring him?” 

“Who,” Bill asks before he can think out what’s going on. 

-

“We’re  _ here,” _ rings a loud voice two days later, a man standing in the doorway with a woman at his side, her dirty blonde hair swinging with her movements. Another man stands behind him, hip around the first man’s waist, cigarette getting tossed as a group of others come into the home. 

It’s overwhelming for Richie. There are so many  _ people, _ all of a sudden. He had gotten the run of who was who from Will, the boy showing off his collection of friends the instant he had the chance. He could easily pin who was who, but it didn’t stop his senses from going crazy as he tried to keep track of everyone.  _ Max, El’s soulmate. Lucas and Dustin, soulmates. Billy and Steve. Erica with her brother, Lucas. Heather and Robin. Will and Mike. Mikey and Big Bill. Ben and Beverly, Bev for short. Stan and Eddie. Theo and Boris. _ Within an instant, Richie is pushing past the group in the doorway to make his way outside, forcing himself to breathe. Maggie had said that it had something to do with his ADHD, but he had never listened when she started talking medical shit because it jumbled his brain and he’d have to write it down to be able to decipher it. 

A hand presses to his shoulder as he leans forward, the contact warm and comforting, Despite that, he panics, his own hands gripping against the other as he forces the body forward. He’s face to face with his doppelganger, now watching the boy wheeze from his spot in the grass. Richie’s hands go up to his mouth, his own breathing stuttered but certainly not because of  _ that. _ “I’m  _ so  _ sorry,” he yelps, leaning down to attempt to help the other boy. “Shit, shit,  _ my bad.” _

To his surprise, the boy cracks a smile and leans up, wheezing out,  _ “English, _ please? I can’t understand you.” It’s accompanied by a painful laugh that sounds far too strenuous to  _ not _ be forced. 

” I’m  _ so, so _ sorry,” Richie forces out, forcing down his original tongue. “Instinct, sorry, I didn’t mean- I just-” 

“Panic,” he laughs with a smile as Richie helps him up, mostly unsure of what to do. “El beat the  _ shit _ out of me when we first met.” 

Richie doesn’t stop regretting it as he leads Mike back to the house, staying quiet for the entire time. He sat mostly in the corner, Popper tucked at his side. 

-

Mike had no idea how in the Hell to respond to the sudden development that he had two other brothers, one of which seemed to tower over him and the other just a few inches shorter. Really, it would be overwhelming for anyone, he thinks, to suddenly be told that they had two long lost brothers that he hadn’t even known about for years of his life. Then again, he guesses he should have at least suspected it. Nancy  _ had _ said that their mom had an affair when she was a kid and another that had resulted in Holly. He should have at least  _ suspected _ that there might have been another Wheeler that they didn’t know about. 

He can hear Richie and the  _ other _ Mike talking, their voices hushed and just barely heard, but still coherent enough as Richie says, “I saw him in the deadlights.” 

The other Mike raises a brow, mouth open with a soft gasp. “Really,” he questions, “And you’re  _ sure _ it wasn’t Boris?’ 

Richie nods, looking somewhat pale as he concludes, “Yeah… Saw Miles, too, kinda tall later on, fuckin’ stick now.” He gives a vague gesture at how tall the other he’s addressing is. 

Mike was tempted to ask but instead turned his attention to Eleven, who seemed to be chatting Max up with a smile on her face, soft expression shining through. Normally, Karen probably would have lost her shit if she heard Richie was leaving Hawkins, but she had heard Billy would be with them. Mike  _ hated _ seeing the way her expression change at that, gagging as soon as he got the chance to leave her sight. It didn’t sit well in his stomach, but she  _ did _ have two affairs, so, what was he to expect from her? She was a kind enough woman, after all. Ted never seemed to hold the affairs against her, either, especially after it started dwindling when Mike was five. He wonders if his father found out then that maybe he  _ wasn’t _ the father. 

“Mike,” Will interrupts before he’s able to do anything, a happy grin adorning him, “You okay?” He had seen Mike get thrown on the ground, which had been  _ rough, _ but Mike was able to breathe just fine again. 

He nods, smiling at his soulmate. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, Will.” Slowly, Mike starts to relax.

-

“I have two twins,” Mike finally asks as he stands beside his mother, watching her cough out the wine that she was taking a sip of.

Her appalled,  _ “What,” _ doesn’t surprise him. It was why he waited for his dad to leave, taking Holly to the store or something, he couldn’t remember. Though the man would deny it, the blonde was certainly his favorite of the children. 

Mike nods with a hum. “El and Will, the house they moved into, it’s right beside two boys that look  _ a lot _ like me, Mom.” He leans against the counter as she wipes the wine off of her front. “Boris and Richie, actually.” 

“I had two  _ daughters,” _ Karen offhandedly corrects, though Mike can’t tell if she’s talking about the other two or Nancy and Holly. 

Mike shrugs half-heartedly. “They’re transgender,” he says quickly, “and really nice, actually. Richie  _ did _ throw me, but-” 

“He  _ threw you,” _ Karen yelps. 

“I scared him while he was panicking,” Mike excuses easily. “Were you ever going to  _ tell me, _ though,” he asks. 

Karen lets out a sigh, one that’s drained and slow like she was exhaling after holding her breath for years. In a way, Mike is pretty sure she  _ had been. _ Slowly, she sloshes the gulps of wine left in her glass around, eyes downcast. “Honestly, Mike,” the woman says slowly, “I was waiting until your eighteenth so I could… Try to get in contact with them, maybe apologize for… Doing what I  _ did.” _

He raises a confused brow, asking without thinking, “What’d you do?” 

She turns her gaze away, pressing her back to the counter and tucking one arm in the other, a typical  _ mom confession pose _ that Mike saw on those shows his Nana loved to watch. It meant this was supposed to be some sort of heartfelt moment, even if Mike wasn’t feeling it. “I was visiting Ukraine,” she says slowly, calculating her words. He hates the scene unfolding in front of him. “He was…  _ charming, _ so to say, in a really shitty sort of way like those douche bags girls fall for on TV that make you question why she has such shit taste in men. It was a one night stand, just one of those tourist things.” 

Mike scoffs, “What, to  _ see the view?” _

She shrugs with a somber smile, tears twinkling in her eyes. She slowly shakes her head. “I just wanted to get back at Ted. We had been fighting before I left, which was new then… I was so pissed, but when I came back…” She sighs softly and runs her fingers under her eyes. “Well, I went back to tell him when the due date got near, but I was late, apparently, and got stuck in Ukraine because you’re a health risk after a certain point of pregnancy and, apparently, I hit it. So, I gave birth to three children with him at my side.” 

“So I was born in Ukraine,” Mike asks. 

His mother nods, eyes turning towards him. “Yeah, and so were they. They didn’t look like Ted and I… I couldn’t just  _ bring them back, _ he’d know about the affair and then there’d be a whole  _ thing _ about it, so… He agreed to take them. But… He was a shitty man, Mike. I thought he’d change and i hope he  _ has, _ but I haven’t seen him since then and can’t track him down anymore.” 

“Do you at least know his name?” 

She nods again, glossy eyes getting wiped as she forces a smile. “Yeah,” she says once more, “But he’s a miner and likes to change his name and move around when people get pissed about it ruining the ecosystem. If I could have tracked him down or gotten the name of my  _ kids, _ I would have been able to-” 

“You could meet them when we visit Will for Christmas,” Mike suggests softly, “Just like you said we would. But, I don’t think you’ll see their dad, they said they were adopted by a family that lives in Derry. They’re the Toziers and they haven’t moved in  _ years, _ from what Boris said, but I don’t know if that’s an exaggeration.” 

“Maybe,” Karen muses sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Mike.” 

‘For?’ 

“For taking your brothers away from you…” 

Mike doesn’t hesitate to hug his mother, softly saying, “it’s okay, Mom, it’s not your fault.” 

-

Richie sits in the hammock with a frown, his worry lines pressed deep as he glances at his friends, at his  _ soulmates. _ Even with it just being the three in the clubhouse, they’re still all piled in the hammock, limbs entangled and skin against skin. They had grown comfortable around each other. It was…  _ serene, _ almost, for the three to be together like this, just enjoying each other’s company. They didn’t get too many opportunities to do things like this, even if they were constantly seen together. 

Slowly, after an entire hour of anxiety pending down against his chest and making his throat tight. He leans up from his spot, watching their eyes turn towards him, worry clear. “Do… Do you guys dislike me,” he asks slowly, eyes downcast, forced to focus down on his lap. He doesn’t want to look at their faces. 

Eddie’s soft voice asks, “What are you talking about, Rich?’ 

Richie pulls away, forcing himself to stand up, to disconnect in case it’s true that they  _ do _ dislike him. He’s not sure how he’d handle knowing they’d hate him. He runs his hands through his hair, hands shaking as he pulls them to his chest. “I - I mean, we hang out a lot,  _ yeah, _ but... That’s what soulmates are supposed to do, right?” Tentatively, he turns towards the two, wary of his own movements. He doesn’t want to be there for confrontation. “I just don’t underst - stand.” The tallest can feel the tears welling up in his eyes, a harsh pressure on his throat once again, tighter now as he looks at their confused faces. “I’ve been flirting an - and trying to understand you two, but it’s  _ hard.” _

They both seem to pause before Eddie suddenly spews, "You were _flirting?"_ It was as if he was completely oblivious to is all, which sits bitterly in Richie's stomach. 

He nods, "Of course! _I fucked your mom,"_ he annoying reminds, to which Stan fucking _laughs._ "S'not funny!" 

"But it _is,"_ Stan chokes with a smile, "We thought you hated us!" 

And slowly, that does raise a chuckle from Richie, though it's somewhat forced and doesn't feel relieving at all. 

**Author's Note:**

> FUCK this is a lot to write and the doc kept crashing so NO BETA
> 
> Also, there's hinted at speculations of rape but like... You really can't tell so it doesn't matter and I won't tag it because it really is only implied that things happened and it takes a lot of looking into to realize it's implied. 
> 
> Anyways, here's my discord server if anyone is interested in joining  
> https://discord.gg/eGkwayy


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